Page 108 of Unholy Obsession

Bane doesn’t speak.

I shift from foot to foot, my stomach twisting. I hate this. Hate waiting. Hate that I want him to like it. Hate that I care.

“Well?” My voice comes out breezy and fake. “I was thinking of calling it ‘Brooding Asshole Watches Wife Paint.’ Too on the nose?”

His head turns toward me, slow as a glacier. His face is unreadable, but his eyes…

There’s something there. Something deep and raw and so overwhelming I have to look away.

“You did this,” he says, voice thick. “You painted this.”

I roll my eyes, because obviously, but my throat feels tight. “Yeah, yeah. It’s just something I do when I get the urge. No big deal.”

“It is a big deal. Why didn’t you tell me you’re an artist?”

His voice is soft, but there’s something behind it that roots me to the floor. A heaviness. A weight.

I swallow. Shrug. Try to ignore how my chest feels like it’s caving in. “I’m not. I just play around sometimes. Not very often. It’s just a painting, Bane.”

His hand moves before I realize what’s happening, brushing over my arm, his thumb dragging over a stray streak of paint on my skin. He lifts his hand, staring at the dark smear on his fingertips like it’s something sacred.

Then he turns back to the canvas, his throat working. He doesn’t say anything else.

But he doesn’t have to.

Then, without a word, he moves. Strong arms wrap around me, his body anchoring mine in a way that feels like protection, like reverence. His embrace is firm but careful, like he’s afraid if he holds me too tight, I’ll slip away.

I freeze at first, because this—this softness, this quiet—is not something I’m used to. But then my muscles melt into him, exhaustion winning over instinct. My forehead drops against his chest, and for the first time in days, I let myself breathe. Just for a second. Just here, in the warmth of him.

His hand moves, slow and steady, up and down my back. No demands. No expectations. Just… holding me.

It’s almost too much. The kindness of it. The weight of him letting me rest for once instead of pushing or pulling or fighting.

I can’t let it stand.

I tilt my head back against his chest, peering up at him with a smirk. “So, uh… you do know this shirt was expensive, right?”

Bane exhales sharply, a sound that’s almost a laugh but not quite. His arms don’t loosen. If anything, they tighten. “I don’t care.”

I poke at his chest. “You say that now, but wait until you realize I used oil paint and this stain is forever.”

His grip shifts, and he finally pulls back just enough to look down at me, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice so low I barely catch it, he murmurs, “So be it.”

I roll my eyes, but inside, I feel... happy. The fire that’s burning in the painting—I feel it inside me now. Bane makes me warm and safe in ways I never knew were possible. Before, I felt like a jackal, afraid and always hungry for scraps.

On the rare occasions I do paint, it’s because there’s some feeling inside me that I canseein my mind but not name, and I can’t rest until I’ve gotten it out of me.

Now that it’s done and Bane’s being all, well,Bane, I feel giddy on exhaustion and accomplishment.

“Come on.” I pull back and grab his hand. “I need wine. And a lot of it, but I don’t have any in the house. You’re driving ‘cause I’m too tired.”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“Well then you better find a 7-Eleven that’s open 24 hours. I’m getting my shoes.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re in the car, and I’m bouncing my bare feet against the dashboard, drumming out a tune that only exists in my head while humming a ridiculous operatic rendition ofElmo’s World.Bane is gripping the wheel like he’s regretting every life decision that brought him here.

“You’re insufferable,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat to it.

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